


Power Cut

by Sally M (sallymn)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: AU, Gen, S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallymn/pseuds/Sally%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the fiasco on Sarran, Avon and Dayna get back to the Liberator all right. But then things don't quite go according to the script...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Cut

**Power Cut**

****

Home... to the _Liberator_. Kerr Avon's home for the last two years, and now - or soon - his by right of possession.

As the grey-white sands of Sarran - and the enraged face of the new President of the Terran Federation - faded and dissolved, Avon took a deep breath, unwilling yet to relax, unable not to.

He had survived the battle over Star One, and the lesser battles with Servalan; now, in the ruin of Blake's political plans, he was less sure of what that survival meant. Everything was still too much of a mess, though he'd managed to get back to the _Liberator_, and could now concentrate on what mattered. Finding Blake. Finding the others. Sorting out where they all stood, in the wake of the Andromedan War.

_"When Star One is gone, it is finished, Blake. And I want it finished. I want it over and done with." _

He put Orac down, and turned to the bereaved girl he'd had to bring with him, speaking with strained kindness. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said dully. Well, he was never very good at consoling - Blake could deal with the hideous emotional fallout left by Hal Mellanby's death, or Cally would, once they were safely back. First, though, he had to _get_ them safely back.

_"I want to be free of him." _

He put an awkward hand to her shoulder; it felt out of place, as it nearly always did. "When we first met," he said, "you said there was no pleasure without danger. Do you still feel that way?"

Dayna shook her head, looking around with big dark eyes, seeing again her father's body in the underground home that was now his tomb. "I think I can do without excitement for a little while."

"Good." Somewhat relieved, he turned to business. "Let's get to the flight deck. I have to locate the others and pick them up."

_Have to locate them, _ he thought, _him - before anyone else does. Return him to Earth alive, or my ship will never be quite mine. _

He flinched at the memory, the image, of quite literally forcing Blake into the lifepod. Blake hadn't wanted to go, God and Blake only knew why - some nonsense about the danger of leaving the ship drifting and empty.

"As it was when we found it," he could hear Blake's voice, thinned and shaking with pain and weakness. "Avon, it will be too long. Someone has to stay as long as possible - and I'm the most - most expendable..."

"Quite possibly," his own, harsh with fatigue. "But of no importance. We are leaving, now. And _you_ at least are going to survive this fiasco whether willingly or not."

"Avon, listen -"

_"No!" _ And he had pushed Blake into the pod, and slammed the door before he could weaken; before Blake's damnable gift for overriding his reason took hold.

He didn't regret it, not at all; it had been the only thing to do. Letting Blake commit suicide - in whatever way, for whatever reason - had been unacceptable for too long now to overthrow what was admittedly a bad habit. But he had to find Blake as fast as possible - alive and safe - and deliver whatever part of his promise was still viable.

_"I will take you back to Earth and then the Liberator is mine." _

He was unwilling to think about that, about what taking Blake to Earth would actually mean in this turned-inside-out universe, and pulled away from the thought, and from Dayna. When Blake was back, she could become his problem; given her father's murder, would probably be glad to. As long as she didn't remain _his_ problem, Avon didn't care. "Come on."

Dayna stopped, eyes widening. "Wait!"

Avon turned back, and stared blankly at the man who had just come in; curly-haired, dressed in Federation black, and pointing a large and impressively ugly weapon at them. A man he had never seen before.

"The penalty for boarding a Federation craft without authority," the man said calmly, his bright gaze fixed on Avon, "is rather unpleasant. Now what would you be doing on my ship?"

"_Your_ ship?"

"Well," he gave a wide smile that couldn't possibly be as guileless as it looked, "for the moment, it seems." He turned his head as several more troopers - the type all too easily recognisable as Federation space-cannon fodder - clattered in. "Section Leader, your men searched the ship, and did not find these two?"

A grim, fleshy man with a heavy brow and small, thin-lipped mouth came forward, far too close to Avon, who stared back at him calmly. "We did. Where were you hiding?"

"We weren't hiding!" Dayna spoke up, a touch too quickly. "We've -"

Avon cut in before she said something unwise. "We've only just realized there was anyone else on board. We were -" _oh damn, what and where were we? _ "- in a civilian ship that got caught up in the battle. We managed to dock our life capsule alongside this ship and come aboard." _Wonderful. Even an idiot like Vila wouldn't swallow that. Let alone... _

"That makes sense," the first man said in that lilting, oddly accented voice.

Klegg shot him a filthy look, and turned back to Avon. "Just the two of you?"

_Let's trying pushing our few atoms of luck a little farther. _ "We were exhausted and settled into a cabin. We've been sleeping for hours."

"Section Leader, you'd best have another search made," the first man, clearly if somewhat incomprehensibly in charge, said. "I'm no' blaming the men," this in a tone of total sincerity that Blake couldn't have bettered, "it's a very large ship, and we all know how people die on it -"

_We do?? _ That startled Avon, as did the shifting, not-quite-scared unease that swept the room.

"- But there could be some of the crew still here," the little man went on blithely, gazed back at the others, as motley and ugly a lot as graced any Stormtrooper reunion bash, and a slight, bewildered frown creased his forehead. "And isna someone missing? Section Leader?"

"Two of the men aren't answering, sir." One of the men - dark-haired, rather grubby-looking - offered sourly.

"Not good, it's not safe running round an alien ship on their own. Ye'd best find them."

"Harmon," Klegg snarled, "you heard the officer." The man nodded curtly and led the cannon-fodder away.

"And now, sir... _your_ name?" The officer turned back to Avon, eyes bright, smile blindingly open and sincere, and weapon aimed squarely and steadily at Avon's midriff.

"My name is Chevron, and this is my wife," reaching out and taking her hand, "Dayna."

"You have identification?" Klegg snapped, clearly suspicious.

"We lost everything when our ship was hit."

"We were lucky to get out with our lives," Dayna chipped in, giving the little man in charge a look of bright innocence rather more believable than Avon's. He frowned a little, as if confused, his gnome-like face wrinkling.

"Yes, well, we've all been lucky," Klegg said. "Maybe."

She turned that ingenuous gaze on him.

"Section Leader Klegg," he identified himself after a pause, sourly.

"And I am Subcommander Odo Jarriere," the little man said rather more brightly. "Aide-de-camp to Supreme Commander, now Madam President, Servalan."

Avon choked a little, staring at the man. "Aide-de -" he swallowed. "Most impressive. We are honoured."

_Damn. Unless he's as stupid as he looks... we're dead, Blake. _

  


The flight deck was empty, warm with the glow of Zen's glittering fascia, all signs of damage from the battle gone. Avon - very aware of the guns pointed at his spine - was careful to look around as if he'd never seen it before.

Jarriere was burbling away about computers, voicelocks and needing one of the original crew to get control of the ship. Avon was only listening enough to be irritated by that strangely archaic accent, waiting for the man to recognise him. Surely someone on Servalan's staff - even if only for a short time - would have seen...

Jarriere met his gaze with a brilliantly candid, insufferably sweet smile.

"If Blake or one of the others has survived," he went on, "they'll try to communicate with the ship. The computer will identify the voice then direct the ship to within teleport range. At least we hope so, we really do hope so."

"Why?" Dayna asked.

"You need one of the original crew back on board to put the ship under your control," Avon offered, flicking a glance at her. _Zen will ignore her, but if they force me to... _

Klegg came too close again, lips thinning in what was not a smile. "That's exactly right," he said with heavy meaning.

"Have you heard any transmission yet?"

"Of course," Jarriere shrugged. "Thousands. Even one that claimed to be the S- the President herself, though I couldna' follow the story. Very confusin', something about being stranded on a hospital ship and demanding to be picked up." He sighed gustily. "We couldna' follow it, mainly because the ship wouldna' follow it."

"Subcommander -" Klegg gritted.

"Yes, yes, Section Leader. You see, Chevron, there is one, one special one it seems, keeps coming in every hour or so. Every time we hear it the computer registers a power surge as if it was reacting to the voice."

_One of the others. Damn. _ "And if your -" Avon paused, "- the Section Leader's man's theory is correct, it could be a member of the crew."

"It does make sense. We think." Jarriere's forehead wrinkled in one of his expressive frowns. "Well, more sense than anything else we could think of."

_You surprise me. _

"In any case, the ship's gone into direct line flight now, maybe homing in on the signal."

"But just before it settled on this flight path," Klegg said, "the ship went through some very precise manoeuvres which took it close to a planet."

Avon shrugged. The little man _might_ be stupid, Klegg was probably not. "A navigational check, presumably."

"Yes, maybe," the Section Leader's voice dripped disbelief. "But shortly after that you two appeared."

Avon turned a cold stare to him, met an ugly, violent glare in return. "And you suspect us of -what?" he said finally.

"Section Leader Klegg is a very doubting man, Chevron," Jarriere said placidly. "He didn't even believe me at first."

"Can't be faulted for that," Klegg said, a peculiar note of bitter defensiveness in his voice. "I've accepted your authority, Subcommander Jarriere, as long as the reports show that my men and I boarded this ship before you."

"O' course, you've seen the report I've prepared for the President herself, haven't you?" He glanced at Avon, who had stiffened slightly at the words but kept his face impassive. "As soon as we have the ship under control, we'll be sending that report, and there's no doubt that the men who actually took it will be rewarded."

"And that is my squad."

"An' that it is."

Klegg calmed down; Avon wondered briefly at the man's defensiveness. "Thank you, sir," he said gruffly. "Now in the meantime and with your permission I suggest we confirm that neither of these two are members of Blake's crew."

"I don't think they are, Section Leader. I'm sure I'd recognise them, though I have to say Blake himself is the only one of any importance to Space Command." Jarriere beamed at Avon as he spoke; Avon wondered savagely if the man _could_ be as honestly stupid as he seemed. "The others really don't count, do they? Chevron here hasn't even _heard_ of Kerr Avon -" a pause? Surely not, "- or the others."

"Important or not, they've got a very worthwhile price on their heads, dead or alive. With your permission...?" Or without, Klegg's tone seemed to say.

"Oh, for sure."

Klegg waved them towards Zen's fascia with his gun, and spoke harshly. "You will each speak a line into the computer's audio command circuit. If the computer does not recognise the voice it will not respond."

"You don' mind, of course," Jarriere added beamingly.

"As a matter of fact," Avon snarled, unwilling to give in quite so flagrantly, "I do. I am getting a little tired -" Something ice-cold touched his neck, and he froze. Jarriere was suddenly beside him, the muzzle of his gun brushing Avon's skin. The little man was _fast... _

"I'm sorry, Chevron," he said, apparently sincere, as he lightly ran the gun around Avon's throat. "I'm sure you'll understand when the President explains it. She does explain things so _well_, you know."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know," Avon said, voice a little strained, as he raised a hand to the muzzle.

"Oh, I'm sure she'll be willing to see you herself, to explain. But obey the Section Leader, please. He'll apologise later, won't you, Section Leader?"

Klegg's lips stretched again, and waved them forward again with the gun. "Over here. You will say "Indicate if my voice pattern is registered in the memory banks and confirm identity." He looked at Dayna. "You say it."

She sighed very pointedly and obeyed.

"You're clear." He turned to Avon, standing very still with Jarriere's gun still at his throat. "Now you."

A sound like a mechanical cough cut him off - he turned sharply as the communicator chimed. "What the -?" There was a harsh, scratching noise, startlingly loud, and Avon could feel the subliminal force of the ship's power surge. "_That's_ not the same signal as before..."

Avon stared at the panel, vaguely surprised to feel breathless. _Whoever it is, they can't be brought -_ and then the voice, a bare, ragged whisper but he knew it at once. "Zen... Zen, please respond... I can't..." and it fell away in a choked cry of pain.

Without thinking, he started forward - and damned himself in the second before the weapon at his throat dug in. He stumbled a little, trying to twist away - then something slammed into his jaw, and darkness crashed in.

 

"No!" As Avon fell, Dayna jumped forward - and found herself staring straight into the muzzle of the little man's gun.

"What the hell -?" Klegg snarled at the same moment.

Jarriere spoke to Klegg with improbable mildness, without taking his eyes from Dayna. "I'm not sure what happened, Section Leader, but I rather think I hit him."

"You've hurt him!" Dayna tried to judge her chances of taking them both - looked at the guns - discarded the idea. "Let me -"

"No, don't move. Section Leader, that voice."

"What about it? We still got to check this one's voice print."

Jarriere tilted his head, reminding Dayna of a rather comical little blackbird, as he looked down at Avon. "Maybe, when he wakes. Maybe not."

From the communicator, another high-pitched scratching sound, then that voice again. "Zen... where - is Avon -"

"I know _that_ voice," Jarriere nodded happily. "All of Space Command knows _that_ voice. Most of Space Command's waking nightmares have _that_ voice, though I've never quite understood why... that's Roj Blake."

  


Dayna was watching him. "I'm sorry," she said finally. "I let you down."

"Let me down?"

"There were only two; I should have been able to kill them both."

"We all have our off days." He felt his jaw gingerly. "That uniformed fool was quicker than I would have expected. Did you hear any more?"

"Not much," she shrugged. "Another message. The Subcommander - Jarriere - said it was Blake."

"It was - _is_ Blake. Damn."

"You don't want him found?"

"By us, yes." An image of Klegg's grim, heavy face flashed across his mind. "Come on," he stood, ignoring the wave of nausea that came with the act, "we need to get out of here."

"And how do you propose to do that?" Dayna glanced at the doorway, thick, metallically heavy and very, very shut.

He quirked an eyebrow at her disbelief, and bent to pull off a shoe.

"Avon?" The disbelief turned incredulous. The heel slid apart under his hand, and the little lockpicks he carried fell into his palm. Dayna peered over his shoulder, and sniffed disparagingly. "You know you have room for a bomb in there."

He merely looked at her in silence, then turned to the door and got to work.

 

It was taking too long. The lockpicks needed replacing; if they both survived this, Avon thought, he'd have to get Vila to steal him something better.

"You want me to try it?" Dayna finally asked.

"Are you any good with locks?" He didn't bother looking up.

"No, but then neither are -" At which moment, there was a soft click, and the door slid away. Dayna stopped, shrugged, and gave him an easy, half-admiring, half discounting-it-as-luck smile.

The corridor was empty, as was a small plasteel stool by the door.

"What's this?" Dayna bent to pick up something from the floor. Two somethings - what looked like a broken and rust-stained military badge, and a small, pale, round earring that sat in her palm, glowing softly in the light. "One of your crew's?"

"Possibly Jenna's," Avon glanced down at it without interest. "Though faux-pearl was never her... never mind." _And Jenna may not care to be called my crew. If she comes back. _ He took them both, dropped them in a pocket, and forgot about them, and - for the moment - Jenna.

He had more important things to think of. If Zen had brought Blake on board, if the Death Squad and that idiot aide-de-camp had him, if they tried to torture him...

He didn't care, he wouldn't care. This was his ship now, and all he cared about was that Blake lived to honour the agreement, that was all. Or failing that... _No. Failing is not unacceptable. _ There was only one way to find out what was happening. _Zen._

_Or Orac._

_Well, three. Zen, Orac, or getting caught and brought painfully up to date by Klegg. _

"Come on."

 

The last time Avon had been in the life capsule launch section, it had been a wreck, and - having wasted precious time forcing Blake off the ship - so had he been. Now it was self-cleaned, self-repaired, nearly as good as new, and nearly empty. Just one capsule left.

"How much longer are you going to be?" Dayna, he thought for the fiftieth time, meant well but was all too fond of asking questions. She also had less imagination than _he_ did, which made explanations even more tedious than they had been with his less-than-beloved crewmates. "Why aren't you worried about your Blake? Why aren't we trying to _rescue_ him? I thought you cared about -"

"I care about ensuring this ship stays out of the hands of the Federation," Avon cut her off icily, "as does Blake. He has been prepared to die to ensure that far too many times, so I doubt if Klegg and that Subcommander will change his mind. They are more likely to kill him trying.

"Now, when I give you the signal, fire two shots. I don't want anyone to miss this."

  


Klegg was as happy as he was capable of being - not much, but enough to bring a glow to the small eyes and a thinning if the lips that might, to a fellow thug, be taken for a smile.

The battered life capsule had been taken into the ship without problems. Presumably whoever or whatever was in control of the _Liberator_, and refusing to acknowledge Klegg and his men as in command, had an interest in the contents: one revolutionary, rather worse for wear but still worth more to the government than most of them could even imagine.

Not more than _he_ could imagine, Klegg thought smugly, as he kicked the limp, bloodied body on the flight deck floor. His eyes went to Jarriere, watching him with bright eyes. Nor the President's aide-de-camp, probably. Which might be a problem.

Not a problem he couldn't deal with, of course.

He kicked Blake again. They had dragged the man from the capsule, tossing him down with unthinking callousness in front of the officer from Space Command as if for approval.

"It's Blake, Subcommander?" Klegg grated.

"Och, it's him." The bright eyes lifted to his face. "You mean you've _never_ seen the viscasts?"

"It's forbidden, innit?" Moules bleated. "Penalty of ten years in the slave pits."

"At least." This came from fleshy, warglike Stahl.

"If yer lucky," thin little fugface Kroy added.

"Ah..?" Jarriere gazed at each of them for a minute - possibly trying for the fifth time to commit faces to memory - then sighed and shook his head. "That's ver'... admirably obedient of ye all." He turned that bright, flat gaze down to the unconscious man at his feet. "Is he dead yet?"

Moules bent to fumble for a pulse. "Ye- no. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"He'll be dead soon."

"So if we're going to get information out of him..."

"Take him up to the flight deck - careful!" The burred voice sharpened slightly as two of Klegg's men grabbed a foot each and tugged. "We don' want him too damaged to question, do we?"

Klegg summoned a contortion of the face that might, at a stretch, have passed for a smile. "No, sir," he growled, "not yet. Stahl, Harmon, carry him. Moules, go and check on our other priso-"

"Guests," Jarriere corrected cheerily.

"Guests," Klegg agreed, his small, greedy eyes not leaving the grey face of the most famous criminal in the galaxy, and his - _their_ \- ticket to unimagined wealth.

 

"We need to wake him up," He glared down at Blake some time later, frustrated by his inability to coerce information out of an unconscious man. "Harmon, get the tazer -"

"Ah, I wouldna thought that would work, Section Leader," Jarriere said mildly as he entered the flight deck. He sat on the centre couch, near the dulled fascia of the computer, and watched the black-clad Death Squad milling around the body. "Hurtin' a man who canna feel it, 'tis a waste of good power. Do any of ye have a medkit?"

Four pairs of flat, vacant eyes looked at him in confusion.

"For each other, o' course, not for prisoners."

The confusion lifted - but not enough.

"Or for yourselves?" That seemed to click, and Kroy nodded. "Bring it here, there may be somethin' to bring him round."

Klegg grunted. "I still think our other friend -"

"Chevron? Ye could be right," Jarriere watched as that sank in. "Doesna matter, he'll keep for the moment. And we want Blake alive."

"Why? If we can control the ship, we don't need him."

"The Commander - I'm sorry, the new _President_ \- wants him alive. Are ye willin' to stand in front of her and admit to killin' someone she wants alive?" There was a silence. "We don't argue with orders, Section Leader, not unless we want to risk those slave pits your Moules mentioned. Speakin' of which," he looked around, "where _is _Moules?"

Klegg glared around in his turn. "He was supposed to come back -"

"You seem to lose men all over the ship, Section Leader," Jarriere shook his head sadly, "even though it _is_ a big ship... strange, don't ye think? They shouldna be wanderin' around alone. It could be dangerous."

"Because that man Chevron could be out there."

"Nooo, I dinna think so. Because it's..." Jarriere's burred voice lowered in an odd mixture of sepulchral drama and witless cheer, "a _death_-ship, Section Leader, an alien death-ship that _kills_ people. D'ye know the stories of when they found it?"

Several sets of eyes - confused, uneasy, frustrated, furious - turned on him.

"The prison ship sent over guards... and more guards... and then more. Most never returned, and those that did..." his voice further lowered, "...were out o' their minds wi' fright. No one ever found out why..."

There was a silence.

"For all ye know," he went on, "Moules and the others might've been _evaporated_."

"Evaporated?" Stahl squeaked - as much as a human warg could.

"Or just dissolved. Liquefied. Burned. Fried. Absorbed."

"Absorbed?"

"No one knows _how_ the guards died," Jarriere said with murky satisfaction, "no one came back who could tell."

Klegg gritted his teeth. "With all respect, Subcommander, you had no -" He was stopped there - by a faint, almost breathless groan from the man on the floor.

"He's waking up," Stahl leant over the body, wetting his thick lips. "Permission to interrogate, sir - _sirs_?"

Klegg turned his head, glaring a challenge at Jarriere, who met it with a bland, guileless look of his own. "You're in charge, Section Leader," he said cheerfully. "Just remember the President's order. The reports on his previous arrests say he has a high pain threshold, so you'll need to be careful not to kill him."

Klegg bared teeth in what some might have called a smile a smile as Kroy came back. "But it looks like we won't need _that_," jerking a thumb at the basic, inadequate kit in the trooper's hands. "Thank you," he turned the bared teeth to the aide-de-camp, "Subcommander."

And _that_ was when two shots rang through the acoustically enhanced corridors of the ship.

 

"They've launched a life capsule," Stahl, having left and come back with Kroy, reported.

"Which means they've escaped." Klegg turned on the aggravating, infuriating, intolerably placid little man who outranked him. "Do you doubt they're with Blake now?"

Jarriere simply blinked at him - at them - and then counted heads. "Where's Relfe?" he asked cheerfully.

  


"Stay here."

Avon had led the way back to the room they'd been locked in; Dayna, protesting every step, had followed.

"But -"

"Dayna. Stay. Here. I can do it faster on my own."

"Do what?" He could see it in her eyes - _why do you keep everything to yourself? _ \- and didn't really want to think about the answer.

He handed her the gun, instead. "Anyone who comes through the door, shoot them. Anyone," with a wintry smile, "who isn't me, that is." He could only hope she'd obey, but he had no more time to waste. He had to get to Orac. Or Zen. Or Zen through Orac.

But Orac was gone.

Avon swore, coldly and viciously, under his breath and kicked the teleport table. He'd managed to shove the little computer under the control counter with one heel when that idiot Jarriere had arrived; he still had the bruises to prove it. After the disaster on the flick deck, and waking in the locked cabin, he'd realised fairly quickly - well, quickly for someone with possible concussion and a blinding headache - that Orac's key was gone, and that should have meant that the Death Squad were in control of the smug little computer... and therefore the ship. Since they still clearly _weren't_, that meant something.

What, he wasn't sure, and couldn't bring himself to care, except that they would still be trying to force control out of the injured Blake. Avon knew full well they'd have a better chance of getting it _from_ Orac, but that didn't help Blake, or himself.

Well, Orac was gone, so he had to get to Zen.

  


"Have you found Relfe?" Jarriere asked.

Klegg gritted his teeth again, so hard they might crack, and looked around. "He went to find Moules -"

"Who went to find Jecks and Pocki." Harmon added harshly.

"Who haven't been seen since before those two were found on the ship."

It didn't take a genius to see where Klegg was heading - which, he thought savagely, was lucky, since rank didn't give this aide-de-camp-to-the-President any genius at all. Klegg's men were disappearing, the prisoners who _could_ have given them the ship had escaped, and all he had was this pathetic, bloodied excuse for a rebel at his feet.

Well, at least he could do something with Blake.

He took out his gun and small, electrified whip. "Permission to question _this_ prisoner, sir?" _And god help you if you try and stop us,_ he thought.

"Och, go ahead," Jarriere returned to the couch, watching without emotion or interest as Stahl pulled Blake up. The man's eyes fluttered, opened - and stared straight into his.

Blake didn't know him, of course.

  


Avon heard the first scream from his hiding place near the flight deck, a short, choking cry of agony. He froze.

_"Why aren't you worried about your Blake? Why aren't we trying to rescue him?" _ Dayna's clear, clarion tones mixed with the sounds in his mind.

_"I want to be free of him." _ His own voice, from days ago, now like a harsh, thin shadow of thought.

_"You really do hate me, don't you?" _

_"When we have dealt with Star One, I will take you back to Earth and then the Liberator is mine, agreed?" _

_"Agreed..." _

There was a second scream.

_"You really do hate me, don't you?" _

_"When we have dealt with Star One, I will take you back to Earth..." _

And a third, which choked off into a wavering, dying moan.

He realised that he had stopped to listen. Shaking himself free of - whatever - he continued down the corridor. Turning the corner, he stumbled and fell... over the black-clad body of yet another stranger, another intruder.

If this _was_ Zen's doing, he thought, staring down at the small, neat, bloody hole in the back of the man's neck, Zen had previously unimagined skills with very thin, very sharp... knives.

  


"Section Leader!" He heard the thin, nasal voice of the fugfaced one. "Relfe's vanished, just like the rest."

"Och." And that was the idiot aide-de-camp. "As I told ye, the ship kills people."

"Right." That was Klegg, and by the sound of things had reached a dangerous pitch of viciousness. "Even if a spaceship could kill - and it's a machine, Kroy, it can't - why didn't it kill _them_? They're fuckin' criminals, after all."

"It's said to be a de'il ship, and everyone says _he's_ the De'il returned." Jarriere seemed to be almost enjoying his morbid little tales. "Could be the ship - _likes_ him. Which -" there was a silence, and the thick thud of something hitting flesh, "- would be a pity, seein' as how we're slowly killin' him."

"Wha- what do you mean?"

"Sub-Commander, I think you should -"

"Och, it's just rumour, Section Leader." The man's vacuous cheer was making Avon's clenched teeth hurt; he could only imagine what it was doing to Klegg. "When ever'one on a ship dies horribly, there's always rumours. Dinna concern yeself, Kroy."

"I'm not -"

"After all, dyin' for the Federation and the President is what we do - isna it?" Jarriere said. "However slowly, messily, painfully, agonisin'ly, 'tis the duty an' the honour of the Supreme Commander's loyal troops to suffer horribly, endure whatever tortures are our part, lose whatever limbs, bear whatever mutilation and murrrrder..." He drew the last word out almost lovingly. "After all, torture an' mutilation an' murder canna be unknown to you, Kroy, don't ye deal with it every Terran week as part of your duties?" There was no answer to that. Jarriere paused, seemingly confused. "Och, pardon, I mean deal it out. Na difference."

There was another silence; clearly the men agreed with Avon's thought that there was all the difference in the galaxy, but weren't about to say it to the new President's personal staff.

Avon sighed. They'd been arguing for fifteen minutes now; concealed in the shadows outside the flight deck, he could almost feel his gritted teeth ready to crack as the warg-faced idiot started up again. He could only wait so long; Blake, Vila - wherever he was, whatever his peril was - and Avon's own temper might not last much longer.

"S'bc'mnder, Sec'on L'der -!" The thick, breathless voice from the other doorway made him tense. "F'foun' somethin', part of somethin'..."

"Part of what?" Klegg bellowed.

"I think - think it's part of Relfe -!"

"WHAT!!"

"Or Moules - or both -!"

There was a babble of yells, and a confused rush of heavy boots towards the entrance.

Avon waited, counted the ten types of fool he unquestionably was... then counted them again. Deciding the coast had to be clear, he entered the flight deck silently, crossing to look down at the shattered body of his lea- _former_ leader. _Former, _ he reminded himself savagely. But not yet dead.

Not yet, and not going to be.

Blake lay crumpled on his side, head fallen forward so that Avon could not see his face. His arms were bound behind him; the bandage that had still been there when he'd left the ship was now gone, along with his shirt, and Avon could see bloody welts on his back. Klegg's work.

As Avon knelt and carefully turned him over, his head fell back; his face was ashen, lips grey, black rings under his eyes. The Lazeron wound had re-opened, a blackened mess all bruise and ulcer and blood-red blistering.

_Uninjured, Blake? Why lie? _ He shook his head; he knew the answer to that. So that Zen would go for the others first. _Your great big bleeding heart was supposed to get us all killed, Blake. Not save us at your expense._ He touched the cold throat, mind a blank for a moment before he found the sluggish pulse. His fingers came away wet.

"Status report, Zen," he heard his own voice, mild and detached.

He listened with one half of his mind - Jenna, safe on a neutral carrier; Cally - no report; Vila - injured and 'in grave peril', as Zen reported. Repairs complete. With the other half, he tried to find a way to get Blake away from the flight deck, and found none.

"Orac?"

"The one called Orac reports it is not at present in the hands of the intruders."

"Then where the hell is he?" _Orac has discovered how to move itself. Or I have gone insane rather earlier than I thought I would. _

"The one called Orac reports it was in the hands of an intruder. That situation has now been resolved."

_Or Orac has gone over to the side of the slightly bigger battalions - bigger than myself, a girl, and a half-dead idealist, that is - and is lying. _

"The one called Orac is not assisting your foes," Zen droned, as if the computer could read his mind.

"Perhaps." And perhaps not, but he'd deal with that when he had to. "Zen, you are not to bring any of the others on board until Blake or I authorise it." _If Vila is next, they'll kill Blake to make him talk. _

Blake's eyes opened, blind and hurt. He stared at Avon for a minute.

"Make contact with Orac, Zen, and monitor what it does." Avon went on calmly. "And if any of the intruders are separated and you can eliminate them without danger to myself, Dayna Mellanby or Blake, do so."

"Confirmed."

Blake's lips moved, a single, soundless word. _Go... _

Avon knew; they both knew. He had to stay free, had to leave Blake here for Klegg and the others to come back to. He nodded sharply, turned on his heel, and left, ignoring the chill that must have come from Zen's recovering life-support.

  


He went back to collect Dayna - whatever her faults, she could fight - but the cabin he'd left her in was empty. She was gone.

_Damn it! _ He should have known she'd not be content to stay behind. Given that he'd heard no explosions or pitched battles, she'd probably stumbled into trouble, and that was something they couldn't afford, not with Bl- with _others_ of this hapless crew, he corrected himself angrily, also probably in trouble or _definitely_ there.

Dayna already showed signs of being hard to handle. Which, he reflected grimly, would make her a perfect addition to this motley crew of Blake's - of _his_ \- oh hell, his if he couldn't get rid of them when Blake left. That was assuming any of them lived that long, of course, that Dayna was still alive now and that anyone except Avon himself and Blake - because Blake _had_ to be - was still alive.

The message from Vila had said 'grave peril' but that could have meant anything from a broken toe in a rainstorm, to imminent capture and dismemberment by whatever locals were on the planet in question. About Jenna and Cally, he didn't know. And it was way past time to finish this, though how...

He turned - and looked straight into a gun being pointed at his head.

"Thought so." It was the one called - he groped for the name - Hammond? no, Harmon, aiming one of the heavy, ugly Federation guns at him and gloating greasily. "That stupid Space Command fuck didn' know what he was talkin' about, did he? You're one of them."

Avon lifted an eyebrow, seeing little point in answering.

"Against the wall - now!" When Avon hesitated, the man fired, a wobbly, stressed shot that was too close and too hot. Avon backed up, but didn't turn away; if he had to die, he would rather face it.

And it looked like he had to.

_Damn it, Blake... _

"You thought you could fool us f'long?" Harmon spat. "Knew it wasn't that garbage about a deathship. Now we'll get to watch Klegg kill you slowly and -"

"Not if he wants to get off this ship alive." Avon saw the flash of fear in the small muddy eyes. "He's a fool if he thinks Blake will give in."

"Then you can watch _him_ pay for his crimes, before we make you give in instead. We've got lots of ways to make it last, scum, and murder of Federation soldiers is punishable by slow death."

"Like the one the _Liberator_ is inflicting on you and yours -?" Definitely, there was a darker flash, fear mixed with hatred, a dangerous combination. "If they're dead."

"You know they are, you killed them."

"Actually... no. If they _are_ dead, and they probably are... I didn't kill them." Avon allowed himself a thin smile. "I wish I could say that I'm sorry... no, in truth I don't. But you know full well I didn't, don't you?"

"You lying -"

"Because _you_ murdered them."

The hatred turned feral; he'd either hit a nerve or missed the point completely. Either way, he was going to pay. "They were my friends," Harmon spat. "Not that scum like you would know what that means."

_And something like you would._ Avon was well aware of the next step - the dreary process of subject him to the extreme pain and suffering that they'd already tried on Blake - and could see no way out of it.

"I saw you coming out of the lower corridor," he went on doggedly. "You were nervous, uneasy."

"Being hunted by murdering criminals can do that. Now get moving. Klegg's waiting."

Too late. He'd worked it out too late.

_Sorry, Blake. _

"You found the Treasure Room." Avon stared into the cold, flat, greedy eyes of a man without a soul. "You found the currency, the rare metal, the precious stones. How much are you hiding now, and how stupid are you to think you will be allowed to steal it from the ship? One that the Subcommander -"

_Stupid, stupid!_ But he couldn't unsay the words that would kill him.

"You think the Subcommander will care?" Harmon smiled suddenly, a thin, greasy smile of triumph. "No chance, rebel scum, he won't care. But I guess the Section Leader will have to make do with Blake and the girl, because you aren't going to live to tell anyone else." He lifted the gun, aimed straight between Avon's eyes, and tightened his finger on the trigger.

_So stupid._ He waited for the blast, except -

\- Except _that_ didn't sound like a Federation blaster.

  


The thug puddled into a messy black heap in front of him, and Jarriere, standing at the door, sighed. "Aaah, you shouldna have pushed like that."

"He -" Avon could only stare blankly at the man, who held a - _Liberator_ handgun. "How the hell -?"

"I found your little computer." Jarriere pulled something out of his pocket and threw it to him - Orac's key. Avon caught it unthinkingly, still staring at the gun in Jarriere's hand. "Och, don't worry, Klegg's men canna use them, they're too hot."

"Yes, that's an automatic defence. Which I had disabled. How the _hell_ -?"

"Orac - umm, how d'ye put it - re-enabled it." Jarriere nodded, pleased with himself. "Not a bad little soul, he is."

"No soul," Avon corrected. "But that doesn't - how the _HELL_ -??"

"Klegg and the rest know nothin' about Orac, Mister Avon, but I saw you try to kick him - it - him -"

"It."

"- Under cover in the teleport room, so I went back and had a chat with him. He's on our side."

"Our side? Since when was there an - _our_ side?"

"Ah, y'see, there has been ever since you arrived. Or even before... I don' intend for this ship to be going back to the President, whichever President. It wouldna be wise for me to go back either - here -" Jarriere tossed him the handgun and pulled out a tiny, almost dainty, and harmless looking little stiletto, "- seein' as how the Commander, as she was, had her men try and kill me three days ago. Ye know after that business your people were involved with, she had Freedom City razed to the - well, there wasna a ground to be razed to, but ye get the idea. Anyone who knew about that fiasco's been hunted down. She doesna like being seen as a fool."

He saw the look on Avon's face, and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Wha'? Surely ye all knew that every time Blake makes a fool of the Commander, ever'one who knows of it disappears? So I chose to disappear before she could - have me disappear _her_ way."

"But you are still on her staff?"

"Och, no, but I didna think telling that to Klegg would help, ye understand?"

Avon shook his head to clear it. There would be time to sort this out - and work out this man's angle - later. Firstly, he had to find out about...

"Blake."

"Dyin'. Klegg's got him on the flight deck, and ye _don't_ want to think about what he's doin' to the man now, time for that later."

"Blake won't break."

"I worked that out, Mister Avon, but Klegg, he hasna thought of it. Come on," the little man turned and headed for the corridor, "we're -"

"And Dayna?"

"Dayna -? Ah yes, the little lass ye called your wife, though I don' recall seeing her on the records of Blake's crew."

"She is not part of the crew. But she will be. Do you know where she is?"

"Ah." Jarriere stopped, and blinked at Avon innocently. "Aye, I do. She's in one of your other cabins, the one with what looked like a still."

Vila's secret still, but Avon didn't bother explaining.

"I'm afraid I had to burn the lock shut to keep her in and _them_ out. _Not_ ver' happy, she wasna, but I had no time to explain things, no' with Harmon here -" he jerked his head back to the cabin, "- lookin' for you an' all."

Avon shook his head again, and decided that the details could wait, and followed the other man down towards the flight deck. "So you killed Klegg's men."

"Well yes... not nice, but we really need them off the ship, don't we?'

"Yes, _we_ do. Where are the bodies?"

"Hmmm?"

"The bodies, Jarriere," Avon hissed.

"Och, well you were wrong about Harmon, you know. I gave him those jewels you'll find on him, I found them in your junk room, where I'm storin' the dead. Just for the moment, ye understand."

"We don't have a junk room."

"O' course you do, on the main floor, tha' big cluttered cabin -"

"You mean the Treasure - you _do_ realise that the 'junk' is worth a President's ransom."

"Or even a Supreme Commander's?"

"Probably."

"Ahh..." Jarriere shook his head. "No, canna see it, Avon. I canna really believe that even the Supreme Commander herself would want six five-foot gold-crusted megawargs wi' Interplanetary time calculators in each of their five tummies..."

Avon sighed. "Those were a gift."

It was Jarriere's turn to blink. "Someone _gave_ them to you?"

"No, someone gave them to _Blake_."

"Och, he really suffers for his cause, more than I thought."

Avon merely gave him an icy look and strode ahead, wondering as he did if he was going to be shot in the back. He had no choice - it was trust this odd little ex-Supreme-Commander's-minion, or nothing - but he didn't have to like it. "How many of them are left?"

"Three, I think."

"And Dayna's safe, but they have Blake."

"Or what's left o' him after Klegg -"

"Shut up." Avon didn't mean to snarl like that - the ice in the words a thin shadow of that which Jarriere's seemingly blithe statement had created in his mind. Blake would survive. Blake would survive as he always did, and continue his insane crusade, whether here or on Earth.

Blake _had_ to survive, because anything else was unthinkable.

"The enemies are in the teleport section," Zen droned. "As instructed, no persons will be brought aboard until approved by you or Blake."

"But Avon," Jarriere said mildly, "if your crewmates are in danger -"

"That would be neither abnormal nor uncommon for this crew, and at this minute, our task is to secure the ship."

"And its owner?"

Avon turned, so swiftly that Jarriere fell back a step. "This," he snapped, "is _my_ ship!"

Jarriere's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "That's no' what the galaxy thinks, are ye sure?"

Avon opened his mouth to snarl... then closed it. This was getting them nowhere. "Mine _or_ Blake's, I want Klegg and his off the ship, preferably dead."

"That would be a good plan, a ver' good plan. Couldna the ship finish them for us?"

"If it could -"

"Wi'out killin' Blake, aye."

"- It would have disposed of you all and saved me the trouble."

"Now that isna kind, Mister Avon. So," looking up with round, sparkling eyes, "what now?"

Avon looked at him for a long moment. He hated doing this - trusting his own and the others' safety to someone whose background was so - so - treacherously untrustworthy.

Servalan's aide-de-camp, of all things. What could possibly be worse?

He shook his head. All these years at Blake's side had taught at least him all about the dubious merits of doing things he hated. "I think I should surrender," he said finally.

Jarriere's absurd brown eyes rounded even further. "Ahh... och, are ye sure ye want to do that, Mister Avon?"

"No, I can think of few martyrdoms I'd like less," Avon snapped. "But it seems I have no choice. As you said... they have Blake."

  


"We have your Blake," Klegg's thick voice was gloating, "and it won't take much more before he's nothing more than dead bounty. Do you hear me?"

Avon sighed, wondering why all Federation fodder had to talk in clichés. "I can hardly avoid it," he snapped.

"We know who you are, Vila Restal."

_Now that is insulting. _

"Come in, unarmed, or we finish Blake off."

"How do I know he isn't," and the words were cold ashes in his mouth, "already dead?"

"You don't - but do you want to take the chance? You'll hear him die, I swear."

Avon sighed again, nodded to the shadow figure by the doorway, and obeyed. Klegg and the last of his men - Fugface - were there, Fugface straddling Blake and holding a gun straight at his face. Blake looked unconscious, though Avon couldn't be sure... but he _was_ dying, surely but not slowly enough.

"Told them," Klegg gloated. "Told them the fuckin' ship didn't kill anyone. That was stupid of you, Vila - he's going to die anyway. But you can save both of you a lot more pain -"

"For a short time," Avon murmured.

"Shut -"

"Klegg?"

Jarriere could have been attending his mistress at Court, so serenely innocent was his voice and smile. "Och, he fooled us then." The blindingly bright gaze switched to Avon, who stared back coldly. "Ye did well to last this long, but it's na good tryin' to fool the Federation's hand-picked, ye know."

"We took them both, Sub-Commander," Klegg growled. "My men and I did. You note that in your damned report to the President."

"O' course, o' course, as I said all along." Jarriere stared at them with happy vacuity, one hand running through his hair, across one ear... and the single remaining faux-pearl earring was gone. "The Supreme Commander - the President - will be mos' pleased, Section Leader, they'll be great changes in store for you and your men," he stopped, mentally counting, "man."

"And _this_ scum will pay for murdering the others."

"Among other crimes, aye. I'm sure there'll be plenty to find." Jarriere nodded. "But first, control o' the ship before it vaporises - or fries - or eats - any more o' us -"

"The ship didn't kill them, did it?" Kroy droned. "_He_ did."

Jarriere opened his mouth to answer - stopped - sighed - shook his head and smiled. "Could be, could be."

"But we _don't_ need this good-as-dead rebel, then," Klegg growled. "And my men are on his head - we've the right by law to execute for murder. Kroy, kill him."

_No!! _ Avon wasn't even aware that he'd moved - that there was a thin, high-pitched whine over his head - that he'd grabbed Fugface's gun, jerked it back and pulled the man's finger across the trigger, blowing the ugly throat clean away. Death by Federation weapon were was not as clean as the _Liberator's_... but still bloodless and horribly, unsatisfyingly neat.

Jarriere bent over the now dead Section Leader, and delicately pulled the earring from the back of his neck. "Of course it's a weapon, Avon," he said with that same, impossible, aggravating placidity that had annoyed Avon from the first moment in this same room. "I didna spend six years in Servalan's personal employ wi'out learnin' to have a use for everythin' I carry."

"Six years... I'm surprised you're still alive."

"So were other folk." Jarriere took the Federation weapon from one lax, lifeless hand. And then..." he said placidly, "there was none."

"One," came a thick snarl behind him - then the whine of Klegg's gun in Avon's hands, and a choked sound, and a thud.

"None." Jarriere repeated, turning to look.

"You need to learn to count, Subcommander," Avon snapped, keeping the weapon level on the intruder till it was clear that he wasn't getting up in this lifetime. "You'll need to help me with Blake. Orac, get Zen to have a gurney from the medical unit sent here."

"It is hardly a task for -"

"One of the computerised ones, Orac. Blake can't walk, and we can't carry him. _Now, _ Orac!" Pushing the dead trooper away, he knelt and placed a cold finger against Blake's lips. After all this, it would be - galling - if the damned man died at the last minute.

That was it.

Galling. Maddening. Frustrating.

As he felt faint breath under his fingers, whatever unruly emotions he'd indulged in since Sarran were forcibly banished.

Irritating. Merely... irritating.

"Will he live?" Jarriere asked, his lilting voice surprisingly soft and almost sober.

"This time. Yes, he'll live."

"Avon...?" More like a sigh than a word, but he heard it.

He paused, then gave in. "He's... with me."

Jarriere beamed at them both. "Did I tell ye I'm a pilot o' sorts?" he asked chattily, helping to lift Blake onto the buzzing gurney as he did. "Well... close. I was the Supreme Commander's personal chauffeur."

"Chauffeur?" Avon stopped; only rigid control stopped him from dropping the injured man and the gun in shock. And he'd thought aide-de-camp bad... "You were Servalan's _chauffeur_?"

Jarriere gazed at him with that same ingenuous look that he'd had at the start. "Well, o' course. Even a megalomaniac needs someone to fly her personal ships."

"And that makes you think you can fly the _Liberator_?"

"Ahh..." A frown wrinkled the gnomish forehead. "Don't ye have a pilot?"

"Until we locate her, no."

"None of ye are pilots?"

"Not as such, no."

"Then for sure I can fly the _Liberator_," Jarriere said happily.

There was a silence. Avon could see Blake trying not to kill himself with shuddering laughter; he himself was just trying to find a reason not kill Jarriere.

At some stage, though not now.

"Orac, arrange for urgent and immediate action to rescue Vila and find the others. Jarriere..." He bared his teeth in what might, in a trooper's nightmare, have passed for a smile. "You can make yourself useful and release Dayna from wherever you locked her."

"Wha -?" The dismay that swept across the furrowed little face was almost worth it. "Ahh, I don' see that bein' a good idea, Avon, she willna be too fond -"

"Use your charm."

"An' if she hits first and doesna ask questions at all -?"

Avon sighed again, and surrendered. He had a nasty feeling that with both Jarriere and Vila on board, things were likely to become even less tolerable than before.

Vila. Cally. Jenna.

He'd stop on the way to find Dayna and check on the computer's rescue plans. She couldn't get any more angry, and he might have someone else - maybe their idiot thief - to deflect the lash of her tongue.

"Very well, stay with Blake." He knew that, _with_ that, he'd acknowledged a measure of trust in the man and briefly cursed himself for it... and Jarriere's wide smile, just as guileless as it had been in the teleport that first minute, only made him curse himself even more. After all, what use could an aide-de-camp be in Blake's battle... or his?

 

_ **Epilogue:** _

"...And if ye'd be kind enough to send it..."

"Jarriere."

Two pairs of brown eyes - one cold and edged with frustration, the other bright and as lively as ever - met over Orac's twinkling cover.

"It's a machine, Jarriere," Avon spoke wearily, wondering again why he bothered. "You don't have to thank it."

"Manners cost naught, Mister Avon -"

"Just Avon, Jarriere."

The brown eyes sparkled, and Avon had to wonder again that the man could act as ingenuously stupid as he had proven - quite conclusively - he _wasn't_.

Vila - having been rescued, with Cally, just before being turned into unwilling organ donations for the rich - slouched in his seat and raised a glass of soma in lethargic toast. He'd had to parry several biting asides from Avon about spare parts and was still mildly affronted that they hadn't rushed to his rescue, even though both Orac and Zen had been firmly forbidden to mention that little business of "not bringing anyone aboard", and Jarriere had shown unexpected tact in saying a great deal, but not about that.

Cally, hovering beside Blake and watching the seeming unequal battle of wits, merely smiled serenely at Avon's just-this-side-of-a-plea look. She wasn't getting involved.

A new, slightly strident voice cut into his thoughts. "What are you sending?"

_Ah,_ Avon thought. _Dayna._ Peevish, and she wanted everyone to know it. He half-turned his head to watch her come onto the flight deck, glaring at the little man standing over Orac.

She had yet to forgive Jarriere - if indeed she ever would - for locking her up. She had yet to forgive Blake - if she ever would - for backing Jarriere up in the decision to lock her up, or to forgive Avon for not letting her shoot both of them.

"Ahh, that'd be the message to Sturdevant of the Third Fleet."

"The Third - Avon, you're letting him do this?" She turned on him, ignoring the others completely and quite deliberately. Avon lifted an eyebrow, waving a negligent hand towards Blake. "I thought you said this was your -"

"Dayna." It was quick, sharp, deliberately cutting her off; from the corner of his eye he saw the twisted half-smile on Blake's pale face, and went on forbiddingly. "The message was from Supreme Commander -"

"President -" Blake murmured.

"And self-proclaimed President Servalan to her loyal Fleet Commander, offering him the position she has recently vacated, on the tragic and heroic death in battle of Commander Miah Micassah of the First Fleet."

"Whom Sturdevant has hated and competed with for years." Jarriere nodded happily. "Such a politically astute gesture, it is."

Dayna's soft face scrunched into a frown as she tried to decipher. "So why are _we_ sending on that woman's messages? And helping her?"

"We're not."

"But you just said -"

"Servalan had nothing to do with the message, Micassah isn't dead yet, and the message to Sturdevant will be - accidentally - rerouted to the First Fleet."

Dayna looked at the three men blankly.

"We've also sent an order to the Head of Terran Security, from his new President, to arrest and dispose of the entire new High Council and their families," Blake said gently. "A pity it will stray into the hands of Councillor Joban's brother at Space Command..."

"I don't under-"

"And Orac is working on accidentally 'alerting' all Federation allies that if the Fleets are allowed to dock there," Avon went on, "they have orders to liquidate the entire ruling class, loyal or not, as - pre-emptive security. In Servalan's name, of course."

Jarriere beamed, and patted the little plastic box. "A pity that - wi' all the troubles she's had, the coup and the invasion and the war an' all - the Supreme Commander didna think to have access to her private codes cancelled. Your clever little calculator -" he paused at the distinct electronic hiss under his hands, "o' course, I mean your brilliant cyberbrain here - has dug so deep in Space Command's systems, they'll never lock him -"

"It," Avon murmured.

"- him out again. I doubt any o' the Fleets will have much time for Servalan's schemes and commands now, even if she survives. At least she'll ha' plenty to occupy hersel' with, no time for the likes of us."

"And while the killer cats are fighting amongst themselves..." Blake said.

"The rebellious mice have a slightly less pathetic chance of success."

There was a silence, broken by Vila from his flight position.

"All rather confusing, if you ask me."

"We didn't," Avon snapped. "That chance is still pathetically small, Blake. You can't win."

"You said you would take me to Earth, Avon," Blake said softly, wearily. Cally, by his side, looked mildly reproachful, and Vila, from his console, looked pained - neither of which helped.

"And I shall. When it is safe to do so." _I have not just saved you again to let you..._ he clamped down on the thought. "At least... when it is not suicidal to do so."

"As I agreed, Avon."

Their eyes locked; it was Avon who looked away. "Don't, however, expect me to stay and watch while you commit suicide for the Great and Glorious Revolution."

"As - _you_ wish."

"What I wish..." He could almost feel the old adage about being careful what you wished for crashing down around him. This was not - _at all_ \- what he had bargained for, what he had planned for, what he had thought he wanted.

_I want..._

_"I want to be free of him."_

_Perhaps I was the fool for thinking I could be - yet._ He banished adages and wishes and what-could-be, took a deep breath and finally allowed himself to relax. There were worse fates than having to wait for that freedom while being tied - yet again - to Roj Blake.

He caught Cally's eye, gazed around, at Vila's indolent cheer, Dayna's smouldering glare, Orac's incessant, almost arrogant sparkle, and Jarriere... Jarriere. Ah _hell,_ Jarriere. And he fought down a snarl at Fate.

Oh yes... far _far_ worse.

  
**\- the end -**   



End file.
